


It Had To Be You

by onyourleft



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Canon-Typical Violence, Cass is bisexual know that, Detectives, Dragon Age: Asunder, Dragon Age: Dawn of the Seeker, Drugs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Guns, Minor Character Death, Missing Persons, Mystery, Other Assorted Dragon Age Lore, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft/pseuds/onyourleft
Summary: A missing persons case drags Detective Cassandra Pentaghast head-first into Kirkwall, a crime-ridden city whose streets are ripe for the taking... and her best lead lies in the hands of a dwarf she trusts about as far as she can throw.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a real labor of love for me, and I'm so excited to share it with everyone!
> 
> Title is based on _It Had To Be You_ by Billie Holiday.

The autumn evening in Little Arlathan is in full swing, even in this seedy apartment building: the crackle of a poorly tuned radio and the tinny voice bleating behind it, muffled arguments and laughter and the smell of tobacco. Dirt and cigarette butts litter the stained stair runner and Cassandra climbs the steps in twos, eager to be done with the place. She undoes the tie on her trench coat, feels the stretch of her leather holster across her back. She can pray for an easy interrogation, but she’s never approached a lead without protection, and she’s not about to change that for an elf who might hold the whereabouts of a missing child.

Cole de Brassard’s guardians had declared him missing over a week ago, and came to Cassandra after the Orlesian police turned up nothing. The boy kept an overwritten journal of his thoughts, stuffed with vague ramblings about the people he’d met while travelling. He’s a free spirit, apparently; his guardians told her that he all but lived on the Imperial Railway, taking the trains from Ferelden to Tevinter and everywhere in between, staying with friends for weeks on end before eventually wandering home again. She met with bartenders and Chantry sisters, mercenaries and politicians, all of whom were eager to share with her just how special he is. Of the unending list of names she pulled from his notes, one stood out: _Solas_. Though the crime boss hasn’t been seen in years, there have been whispers of the mob’s presence in Kirkwall, and Cole’s last known trip was out to the Free Marches.

In her mind, the disappearance is as simple as that: the boy must have gotten too involved in his “friend’s” illicit dealings, willingly or not. Though how he managed to befriend a shadow is another question entirely; picking up the mob’s trail had taken every ounce of goodwill she had remaining with the clergy in Orlais, as well as a favor from Leliana’s web of allies. The search has led her out of Orlais and into the underbelly of Kirkwall’s elven district, where all she has to go on is an abandoned apartment under a fake name, owned by a man rumored to be under Solas’s employ.

Cassandra reaches the third floor, where a faulty bulb flickers at the end of the hall. Just before it is the door labelled 3E. On either side of the apartment the tenants are playing loud, clashing music, but when she presses her ear to 3E she hears nothing. When she pulls away, the door ghosts open, just by a fraction of an inch. The wood is slightly splintered around the lock. It’s been broken into.

Everything sharpens. The surrounding sound hushes as she draws her pistol from its holster and takes one steady breath in, and out. She opens the door.

The entryway is empty save a worn pair of sandals and a long, gnarled walking stick leaning up against the wall. She stalks forward in practiced silence into a simple living room, only lit by the glare of streetlights from the windows. Before her, splayed across a broken coffee table and dripping blood into the carpet below, is the body of an elf. His eyes are closed peacefully as though he’s sleeping, and his face is lined with Dalish tattoos. Her lead is dead.

Gun drawn, Cassandra quickly checks the rest of the apartment: a bedroom with nothing but a mattress on the floor by the window and two empty suitcases; a grimy bathroom with a trashcan of ashes in the tub; and a kitchen with a still-warm kettle sitting beside the stove. No one else is here now, but someone was not long ago, and burned their trail behind them.

Her cursory search completed, she returns to the body. The wound on his forehead says he was bludgeoned. He’s wearing a bathrobe and slippers, no wallet on his person or elsewhere in the house. His name in the building’s ledger was Felassan, and whether it was real or not, he was her best bet in chasing down Solas. Could someone have predicted she’d be here? Was Felassan so loose-lipped that killing him was the only way to keep their information safe? Or perhaps he knew this attack was coming, with how peaceful the scene reads.

There’s a creak as the front door opens—

Cassandra draws her pistol on the dwarf that enters, and his hands shoot up in surprise. She quickly takes stock of him: clean hands, dry hair, a holstered gun at his hip. He tries to take a step forward, but she cocks her gun and commands, “Don’t move.”

He seems to put something together as his expression shifts to an easy smile and he says, “Ah, the _Seeker_. I can hardly believe the Hero of Orlais is here, stealing my crime scene.” 

Cassandra scowls. “And you are?”

“Where are my manners? Varric Tethras, private eye,” he says with a bow of his head. She recognizes the name immediately. He’s something of a celebrity in Kirkwall; she had followed his work on the Hawke disappearance in the papers religiously. He has a reputation for his loose adherence to the law and fierce loyalty to his friends and clientele. And, worryingly, Cole had written about him in his journal.

She takes in his gaudy red shirt with one too many buttons undone, his golden jewelry and days-old stubble. The photos could not do this look justice. The corner of his mouth crooks as he gestures to her pistol, calm as anything, and says, “I’d come over and shake your hand, but….”

“Don’t get friendly. You can’t expect me to take you at your word.”

“No, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it,” he sighs, his hands sagging like he’s tired of holding them up. “I’ve been here about twenty minutes, found the body, chatted up the neighbor in 3F. You know, if you head over there now, I bet she’ll give you the rest of the cookies she tried to pawn off on me.”

“Be serious. A man is dead.”

“I am serious,” he says, idly looking around. He points to something behind her, but she doesn’t take her eyes off him. “Did you see the dust pattern on the side table? The lamp is missing. Bet you that was the murder weapon.”

“You’re responsible for the break-in, then?”

“No, in fact, old lady 3F is responsible for the break-in. She said she couldn’t handle the kettle screaming anymore.” She narrows her eyes at him and he continues, “I spent the last ten minutes calming her down after she found the dead body of her neighbor. I hardly got any time to investigate, and now you’re here to stick another thorn in my side. Really, Seeker, enough with the gun already.”

Cassandra waits a moment just to make him sweat before she lowers it—but does not holster it—and spares a glance at the side table he mentioned. Sure enough, there’s a clean circle in the dust with a thin line trailing off it where the cord would have been. By the time she looks back he’s already making himself at home, lifting up couch cushions to see what’s underneath. “Tell me, Mr. Tethras, _why_ were you after this man in the first place?”

“Are we going to dance around it?” Varric replaces the cushions neatly and wanders toward the kitchen. Cassandra follows. “You and I are chasing down the Wolf,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Solas,” she clarifies.

Varric shakes his head, “If you want to take the fun out of it, sure.” He stoops to pick up an empty bowl that was sitting under the table and sniffs at it. “Ugh. Smells like dog food.”

“And why are you after Solas?”

“I can’t look for a wanted crime boss without a reason?”

“There’s more to it than that, you have to elaborate.”

Varric scoffs and sets down the bowl, a little too hard. “I don’t have to do shit.”

“Unless you want me to have you arrested, you’ll explain.”

“And now you’re threatening me?” he laughs dryly, and places his hand on his hip, pointedly right above the mahogany grip of his gun. “I heard you and the Chantry aren’t on speaking terms anymore. Who’s gonna grant you their blessing to incarcerate little old me?” 

“And _I’ve_ heard you love to talk, dwarf, so enough with the bullshit!”

“You’re just as impatient as the rumors say—”

“I have no time for patience, my lead is dead and a child is missing!”

Any pretense of nonchalance Varric had slides off his face. “A child? What’s the kid’s name,” he demands.

“I refuse to play your game. I will not show you trust until you do the same--”

“Kieran, is the kid’s name Kieran?”

“No,” Cassandra says, and he runs a hand over his face and pushes past her out of the kitchen. She follows him, her brow furrowing. “Are you saying you’re after a missing child too? Who is this Kieran?”

“Seeker,” he says, looking down at Felassan, “this is…big. What’s his name.”

She stares at the blood already drying on the carpet. Though she doesn’t trust Varric, she thinks she can trust the dread in his voice. Eventually, she tells him, “Cole.”

“... _Shit_.”

A knock at the door, and both of them spin around to see an old woman in the doorway, looking sheepish.

“Mr. Tethras?” she says, “Is everything alright? The police should be here soon.”

“Yeah,” Varric replies, voice tight. He looks up at Cassandra for a moment, studying her, some unreadable mix of emotions in his eyes (fear? indignation? guilt? accusation?), and then turns to walk toward the front door. “Come on, Seeker, let’s not wear out our welcome.”

———

The Kirkwall police station is more like a zoo. There’s a near-constant ringing of phones, officers running to and fro, and the holding cells are fit to bursting. Cassandra had given her report to an exhausted cop who told her to wait for the captain, but she’s been left sitting and watching the clock for far too long.

In fact, the entire city is a mess. She’s been to several other city-states in the Free Marches before—Starkhaven especially, for its ties to the Chantry—and each has their own charm. Not Kirkwall, though. The city is rife with crime and filled to the brim with refugees fleeing the war. Cole could’ve led her anywhere else…perhaps Antiva, at this time of year. She knew the moment her train first emerged from the tunnels under the Vinmark Mountains that this city would be different, a profound unease settling in her gut the second the first hovels on the outskirts of town came into view. This place wasn’t built for tourists.

As much as she tries to tune it out she can hear Varric chatting up a group of officers by the coffee pot, and can’t stop herself from glaring as he gestures broadly through his tale, the officers hooked on his every word. After he’d given his statement, he’d stuck around, seemingly just to soak up their attention. He probably has the entire precinct in his pocket.

His story ends with the officers’ uproarious laughter, and he bows theatrically before slowly heading towards the door. Cassandra silently wills him to leave faster, and he meets her gaze across the room as if he’d heard her. He smiles back at her scowl, winks, and struts out the door, whistling as he goes.

“Detective Pentaghast?” says a voice behind her, and it’s a lucky thing, too-- she might’ve gone after him just to wipe the smug look off his face if they’d kept her waiting any longer. 

“Varric said I’d find you here. Thought I’d check before throwing him out on his ass,” says the woman, and Cassandra holds back any remarks about the dwarf to quickly stand and shake the hand she’s being offered. “Police Chief Aveline Vallen.”

Her grip is strong, her hair fiery red, and her accent Ferelden—not a woman to be trifled with. “You seem understaffed,” Cassandra says, not quite managing to hide her annoyance.

Chief Vallen just shrugs. “War will do that,” she replies, turning and gesturing for her to follow down a corridor of offices. “This your first time in Kirkwall?”

“It is.”

Aveline pushes open a frosted glass door with her name on it and they step inside. Her office is simple and well-organized, and Cassandra wishes she could say the same about her own. They take a seat on either side of a stately maplewood desk, and she tries not to look envious at the neat pile of folders in an out-tray meant for underlings to deal with. “At least tell me it isn’t your first day,” Aveline sighs, leaning back in her chair. “I’m having a hard time understanding how you managed to stumble upon a murder as soon as you got here.”

“I’m tracking down a missing person. I believe he has gotten involved with Solas.”

“Solas? The Dread Wolf?” she asks with an incredulous smile. “Not just the mob, but the boogeyman leading them?”

“Yes, well, without the victim’s statement, I’ll need whatever information on the mob your precinct has—”

“If this is Chantry business, I haven’t received notice from the OPA. Brennan was working the night shift, though, so I suppose it’s possible she forgot the report at her desk.” Aveline picks up the phone, but instead of buzzing her secretary, she starts dialing a full number, no doubt for the central offices of the Orlesian Police Authority. 

“I’ve made my practice private,” Cassandra interrupts. Aveline stares at her a moment before sighing and setting the phone back in its cradle.

“I see. Well, Detective, Kirkwall is its own state. I can’t hand over police records to a private investigator just like that.”

Cassandra snorts. “Your station seemed eager to share confidential information with Varric Tethras.”

“Oh,” Aveline says, unmoved, “you’d like to talk about Varric?” She pulls a folder from the paper tray on her desk and slaps it down in front of her. “The two of you break into an apartment, tamper with evidence at an active crime scene—”

“Break in? I did no such—”

“ _Your_ statement says the neighbor did. Varric’s says he did it himself.” She taps the folder, as if Cassandra can psychically see inside it. “One of you is lying, but only one of you is licensed to operate in this state.”

So, Varric has changed his story mere hours later. Her first assumption is that he’s lied in the report, but why incriminate himself? No, more than likely he lied to the foreign investigator treading on his turf, inventing some story to keep her off his back until he could retreat to the safety of the Kirkwall Police. She wonders if he even had to bribe them to keep the break-in off his record, or if they just put it on his tab. 

Gritting her teeth, she finally replies, “I arrived _after_ the apartment had been broken into. I acted out of concern for whomever was inside.”

“I’m not going to arrest you for Varric’s slip-up. I’m aware of your reputation, and I understand what you’re trying to do. If you’re after a missing person, you have every right to search public records, and Maker knows Kirkwall still has citizen’s arrest in effect. But if you can’t deal with this quietly, I’m going to demand that you turn over your case files.”

The last thing Cassandra wants is for Cole’s disappearance to become an international incident; if he’s truly gotten mixed up with the mob, public attention on the case will only scare any hope of a lead into hiding. “You don’t have the manpower to deal with this case,” Cassandra protests.

There’s a knock at the door behind her, and she turns to see a handsome brunette peeking into the office. “...Chief.”

“Lieutenant,” Aveline smiles, then levels one last steely glare at her. “Detective Pentaghast, do we have an understanding?”

Cassandra stands and gathers her coat, clamping down on the urge to fight back. She’s reminded once again why she left the Chantry; she can still feel the rain running down the back of her neck at Byron’s funeral, eyes searching throughout the congregation, wondering how many of the mourning officers in the crowd had taken part in his murder. Trust has never come easily to her, but for good reason. “We do,” she says, and allows the Lieutenant to escort her out of the station.

———

The Three Queens is one of the cheaper hotels right on the edge of Hightown, with gaudy Antivan architecture and clearly underpaid staff. There’s a concierge skimming a magazine at the front desk and an elderly man smoking in the lounge, and other than that the lobby is empty. It’s such a stark contrast to Val Royeaux…but travel is hardly in fashion with the war going on, and even then, the economy in the two cities is hardly comparable. The clergy and their fat pockets have never been in danger of being drafted; even in the chaotic aftermath of the Divine’s death, they’ve been able to hold talks regarding her replacement in the penthouse suites of the finest hotels. That’s no coincidence.

Cassandra heads into the smoking lounge and over to the payphones in a dark corner of the room. The elderly man puts out his cigarette and offers her a raspy “good night,” and then she’s alone with the tacky Satinalia masks decorating the wall beside her.

She calls Cole’s guardians for the first time since arriving in town. They’re holding up admirably, despite everything. Evangeline de Brassard is an unshakeable woman, and she wants to hear every last detail of Cassandra’s findings; honestly, it’s ideal, as having to dance around the subject isn’t her strongest suit. Rhys on the other hand stays quiet until she’s finished her recounting of the evening, when he decides to mention that Varric had called them about an hour ago.

“Maker’s breath,” she mutters. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to know why we hadn’t called to tell him,” Rhys says, “but it’s just been so hectic, and Cole has so many friends….”

Evangeline, Maker bless her, takes the phone from him and gets straight to the point. “He asked about what Cole might’ve been doing in Kirkwall, and how much the police know about the whole thing.”

Cassandra leans her head against the wall. “And you told him?”

“Of course we did,” Rhys says firmly. “You know, he’s the one that gave Cole his first journal, to help process his feelings. I know you said Varric is a suspect, and I don’t claim to know him well, but he’s Cole’s friend.”

“Cole thinks _Solas_ is his friend. Surely that shows his judgement is…flawed,” she says, trying to rein in her exasperation.

“I’d never heard of Solas until you mentioned him,” Evangeline insists. “Cole talks about Varric regularly.”

Cassandra pulls Cole’s journal from her coat pocket and flips through it. When she’d done her original investigation at the de Brassard’s home, she had spent most of her time searching through his entire bookcase of filled journals, and only ended up bringing the latest. In it, there’s a few pages early on about Varric—though, if his name hadn’t been mentioned, Cassandra isn’t sure that she’d have recognized it at all.

_The Stone still sings in him, but he doesn’t sing. He’s dimmer when it gets cold. Lonely, longing, but still laughing. I drew a picture of his lost bird, but he made me keep it. I think it made him sad._

She’s no author, but she can feel the affection in his writing, and it goes on for several pages; it keeps drawing her back to the panic in Varric’s eyes when she mentioned Cole’s name. It’s far more than can be said for Solas’s tiny segment in the book: _His name is shadows, solitude, Solas. Don’t forget, even when he wants me to._

It seems she has little choice. Cassandra goes over what little the couple knows once more, bids them good night, and then flips through the phone book to find the address of Varric Tethras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon... and you can catch me crying about it on twitter [@inhushedcrocs](https://twitter.com/inhushedcrocs).


	2. Chapter 2

The neon sign of a man strung up by the ankles is visible the entire drive up Jewel Street. Between the cleaners and the appliance vendors and the cafes, the Hanged Man demands to be seen. Lowtown is buzzing at this time of night; Cassandra glares at the crowd of drunks stumbling out of the building, and waits for them to pass before she steps out of the cab. The air reeks of vice. This is where Tethras conducts his business? All his fame, his standing with the police, the media…and he works out of an apartment building on top of a dive bar?

No one bats an eye as she enters—she can’t say she misses that about Val Royeaux. She scans the bar, the rowdy patrons, the signs and posters plastered all over the walls. The bartender cocks an eyebrow at her when she asks about the offices.

“You’re not from around here, ‘ey miss?” he chuckles, and points to a hallway at the far end of the bar. “Up the stairs, on your left, can’t miss it.”

The second floor of the building is quieter, at the very least. As promised, the door with his nameplate on it is right at the top of the stairs. Perhaps there _is_ good reason for his location after all—perched right above a bar of potential customers.

Her determination and pride are wrestling over whether she knocks or not, but in the end she doesn’t have to choose because a barmaid slips out of the office, throwing her a shy smile before scurrying back down the stairs. Cassandra catches the door before it closes and steps inside. 

It’s a cozy little suite, with a living room set by the windows and a desk opposite the front door-- Varric is seated at it, poring over a mess of papers. He glances up as she enters and smirks before looking back at his work. “I guess Aveline gave you a proper Kirkwaller welcome.”

“You could say that,” Cassandra says, shutting the door behind her and shrugging off her coat. There’s an untouched tray of food at the corner of his desk, and the soup is still steaming—must be what the barmaid was here for—but Varric makes no move for it. She clears her throat. “I need to know about your relationship with Cole.”

Varric shakes his head, still reading as he mutters, “Apparently, we’re not as close as I thought. I haven’t seen him since Wintersmarch of this year... How exactly did he get tied up with the mob? Sure, he loves a lost cause, but the Wolf?”

At first she’s taken aback. He’s being far more receptive than she expected. “He left very few clues as to the nature of his relationship with Solas,” she tells him, and places her coat over the back of the leather sofa. “What about the boy you mentioned, Kieran? Perhaps they were both recruited by the mob?”

“No, no way,” he huffs, and finally tears himself away from his work to look at her incredulously. “I mean, you must know by now how good of a kid Cole is.”

Cassandra shrugs. “People have secrets. Your friend may surprise you.”

“Anybody else, sure, but not Cole.”

“Then what of Kieran? What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much,” he sniffs, and starts shuffling some of his papers together. “Client confidentiality, you know how it is.”

And _there_ is the tone from their first meeting: unbearably smug, like everything is going as he planned it. He’s just lured her into giving him information, when he hasn’t told her anything she didn’t already know.

“Be reasonable,” she says, as calmly as she’s able. “If you care for Cole, anything you can give me might help me find him.”

“Really, there’s not much to say. Kieran’s a sheltered teenager with an overprotective mother—who’d rip my head off if she knew I’d shared any of this with you.” He watches her stalk toward his desk, bemused. “You’ve got this sour look on your face like you don’t believe me.”

She glares down at the mess of folders, newspaper clippings, grainy photographs, and notebooks on his desk. Some of the files look like official police reports…it looks like his popularity at the station has its perks, whether the Chief is in on it or not. “You lied about the break-in,” she reminds him.

Varric snorts. “Ah, well, forgive me for trying to save that old lady from the legal trouble of trespassing. For me it’s a slap on the wrist, for her it’s a fine I’m not sure she could pay.” He leans forward in his chair, and asks in mock-pity, “Are you sure you’re a detective?”

Cassandra bristles. She slams her fists on either side of the desk and towers over him, knowing she must look as murderous as she feels because he shrinks in his chair— only slightly, but she has an eye for this. “Tell me,” she warns, voice low, “what you know.”

For a moment, she’s sure she has him...but then his shoulders ease. There’s a glint in his eye. “What, so we’re partners now?” Varric coos. He holds up a blue folder between them—it’s marked with the OPA insignia. “I was doing my homework, Seeker, but I guess I just don’t have the clearance to read all your details.”

Cassandra’s mouth twists as she tries to figure out his game. He knows her ridiculous titles, _Seeker_ and _Hero_ and all—what else is there to know? He leans back, apparently satisfied with her confusion, and asks innocently, “Who’s Regalyan?”

She reacts instantly, without thinking, snatching the folder away with one hand and slapping him hard across the face with the other. She’s satisfied by his shock and the sudden silence; he reaches up to touch the red mark that’s swelling on his cheek, and it makes him wince. Good.

Turning sharply on her heel, Cassandra strides over to the couch to tuck the folder into her coat. She wants to storm out the door, slam it so hard the hinges come loose, but she can’t. Instead, she takes a seat on the sofa and tries to clamp down on the crazed feeling in her chest. Even just his name and the memories resurface, unbidden. 

_Just think about it, Cassandra._

This is where she needs to be. This is the path that leads to Cole. Regardless of what she wants, her best lead is dead. Cole is more important than her pride.

_Just promise me you’ll think about it._

A gentle clinking draws her out of her own head. Varric is pulling a bottle and two glasses from a waist-high cabinet by the windows; the neon from the Hanged Man sign flickers over him, lighting the liquor red as he pours it. He wanders back to her and—instead of sitting on the couch across from her, or even the chair beside her—sits on the edge of the coffee table right in front of her.

“I crossed the line,” he says softly, offering her the drink, “and I’m sorry for that. But I’m gonna be honest with you, Seeker. I’m not giving you a hard time for the fun of it.”

She glares at the mark on his cheek before rolling her eyes and taking the glass, muttering, “You could’ve fooled me.”

His jaw works for a moment. “I don’t trust you with Cole’s life.”

“ _That_ I do believe,” she snorts, and takes a sip. It’s good whiskey. Maybe she’d have hit him again if it wasn’t. “If you’d truly done your research, you’d know that I am _good_ at my job.”

“Your ability is not what’s in question, here. I don’t know how it works in Orlais, but punching the answers out of people isn’t going to cut it in Kirkwall, _especially_ not with the mob.”

“Is that how you see me?” she asks, watching him as he takes a long, slow drink.

“I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt—maybe you’re a decent Chantry sort. You’ve got a reputation, sure, but who doesn’t? And then you come in here and slap me in the face—“

“For dredging up _my_ personal history—”

“—and it’s just the same as it’s ever been with you people!”

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose. She does want to strangle him, but she doesn’t want to prove him right.

Varric continues, apparently discontent with the silence, “Last time a Chantry official came knocking for info, she almost killed me. Did you know that?”

She did, actually. About four years ago, the Kirkwall Chantry had been destroyed in a deliberate explosion; at the same time, the eldest child of the Hawke family had gone missing, presumed kidnapped by the culprit. It was a mess—Tethras searching for his own missing companion, the Chantry demanding justice for the attack, the papers and the public eating it up as if it were a radio soap opera… Cassandra herself had almost been pulled from the Divine’s service to oversee the investigation.

Somehow, she can’t imagine him taking that well, so instead she says, “I understand that the Sister that volunteered for the job was…overzealous.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he grumbles.

“Is there a point to this? If you distrust the Chantry, so be it, but I do not represent them anymore. My only goal is to find and rescue Cole. Give me what you have on Solas, and you can go back to your own case.”

Varric takes a sip of his drink and then turns the glass in his hands—no doubt calculating how he can reject her offer without facing her wrath. He searches her eyes for something, shrugs, and then stands.

He pulls his coat off the edge of the leather chair beside them and says, to her surprise, “I’m heading out to meet a friend. You tagging along?”

She’s tempted to ask what the catch is, but pushing the issue will no doubt change his mind. Still, as she pulls on her coat to follow him, she feels the heft of the OPA folder at her side, and can’t stop herself from telling the back of his head, “This had better be worth it.”

———

_Wealth and loss, success and hardship—the ever-changing pace of a city built on crime. If you were born and raised in Kirkwall, you probably already know how to navigate its murky waters, but if you’re a tourist chasing the thrill of tabloid drama, let me give you some advice before you book your ticket: learn how to swim first. Even the brightest of stars can be eclipsed in a city like this._

_The story has been told a dozen times by a dozen papers, but no one knows it like I do. I spent a full year chasing down a ghost. Even now I see shadows outside my door and wonder if it’s my friend back at last, that maybe the horrors I saw this past year will fade away like a bad dream. This is the story of the Champion of Kirkwall: a Ferelden refugee living the Free Marcher dream, and the unluckiest bastard I’ve ever had the fortune of calling my friend._

Varric is smart enough to keep his mouth shut as he leads her through the winding streets of Lowtown, giving her time to think. She remembers the hunger with which she tore through The Tale of the Champion, but not any details that might give her leverage over him. The author himself glances warily back at her with his bruised cheekbone; he truly has a talent for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

They reach the edge of a tunnel that passes under the train tracks above. Dim fluorescents flicker inside, but reveal nothing except the vague sheen of dampness off the road. Varric abruptly stops in the light of the only working streetlamp in the area, shoves his hands in his pockets, and asks her to wait. He’s not the type to go to all this trouble to have her murdered, but the thought does cross her mind, regardless. Other than the hum of passing cars several streets over, or the barking and clanging of trash cans in distant alleys, this service road is heavy with quiet.

Slowly, insistently louder as it approaches, the clicking of heels echoes through the tunnel—an elf steps out from the shadows of the underpass. Her blonde hair is tied back with a scarf, and she clutches the lapels of her satin jacket nervously as she strides toward them.

Varric grins. “Orana, what a surprise! I haven’t seen you since…” he blows out a breath, and the rest of his sentence goes conspicuously unfinished. “How have you been?”

“I’m doing well, ser,” she says softly. She glances at Cassandra, then at the ground, then back at Varric again.

“Don’t worry about the Seeker,” Varric reassures her, “she’s here to help.”

Orana gives Cassandra a slightly queasy smile, but lets go of her grip on her jacket and starts smoothing out the fabric. “Merrill can’t make it just yet, so I offered to come meet with you,” she says. 

“That’s alright, it’s good to know you’re doing well. You _are_ doing well, right?”

“I am. Miss Isabela offered me a job last year.”

Varric snorts. “What, Gamlen couldn’t afford to pay you?”

“Perhaps you can have your reunion later,” Cassandra interrupts, and meets Varric’s glare with her own. “Let’s get on with it.”

“I’m sorry,” Orana mumbles, “but—well. Merrill told me who you were looking for. Felassan, I mean. I saw him at the club.”

“When?” Cassandra asks, at the same time as Varric’s “what was he doing?”

“Um, yesterday. He was with a bunch of strangers. But I wasn’t serving their table that night, I didn’t get close enough to hear what they were talking about. I thought maybe Miss Isabela could tell you more?”

The slow rumble of a train approaches overhead; Varric and Orana turn to wander into the darkness of the tunnel, and Cassandra sets her jaw and follows close behind. The two exchange more pleasantries—the elf describes her work as a server in excruciating detail, the dwarf asks about her boss, and as their prattling is drowned out by the roar of the train above, Cassandra looks around at the shantytown they’re walking into.

The block is taken up by an old schoolhouse and what must’ve been a park; now the land is dotted with plywood shacks and tents, oil drum fire pits and laundry lines. The low-rise buildings around the square, no matter how rundown, make the camp look even more meager. It can hardly compare to the Dalish Quarter in Val Royeaux… though few cities can, with its towering apartments and colorful markets. Even if Cassandra had always thought of it as crowded and dangerous, perhaps the elves have it better in Orlais than she thought.

Orana leads them to the schoolhouse doors and lets them in. It’s warmer in here than outside, but only just, and the acrid smell of antiseptic doesn’t quite mask the dinge of the place. Along the left side of the hall are a row of classrooms, with blackout paper in the windows. Orana ushers them into the administrative offices to their right before Cassandra can get a good look at the rest of the first floor, and shuts the door quietly behind them. Another elven woman is standing over a desk inside, and she turns so quickly her beret almost comes lose.

“Varric!” she cries, and rushes over to give him a sort of half hug as she fixes her hat. She has enormous, glimmering green eyes, and Dalish tattoos across her face. “I only just got back, I’m so glad I didn’t miss you. You won’t believe how much Tomwise is selling stamps for, last week they were only—”

Varric clears his throat, and the woman finally notices Cassandra standing there. “Oh!” she gasps, “I meant, err, stamps for… postage!”

The fact that Varric’s confidante is buying black market goods does not surprise her in the least. “I’m not a cop,” she tells the Dalish, and looks down her nose at Varric, “but I _am_ starting to get impatient.”

He scowls, but his expression softens when he turns to his friend. “Daisy,” he starts slowly, “I wish I could say I have good news…”

“No, it’s alright... I didn’t know him that well.” The Dalish awkwardly turns back to her desk and starts sorting through her purse. “I guess it’s lucky you found him when you did.”

“The killer wanted him found,” Cassandra corrects.

“Really?” Daisy glances over her shoulder, carelessly showing the ration books in her hand before she tucks them into an envelope. How did this girl let down her guard so quickly? Is she that unafraid of being caught, or is she blinded by her trust in Varric?

“That’s right,” the dwarf says, “the kettle was set to boil. The noise drew the neighbor before I even got there.” Cassandra crosses her arms at the lie, but lets him continue his story. “The crime scene was hardly subtle, either. Burned evidence in the trash, body just left out in the open… I mean, if the Wolf is known for anything, it’s covering his tracks.”

Daisy wanders around the office as she listens, tucking envelopes into cubbyholes labelled with names, pinning job flyers to a corkboard, checking a clipboard by a stack of boxes. “You think it was someone else?” she asks eventually.

Varric shrugs. “Not necessarily. It could be a warning to any other gang members thinking about quitting.”

“Or,” Cassandra interjects, “it was a sloppy job by a new recruit.”

He gives her a tight-lipped smile. “Seeker, I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“It’s not an accusation. Children make mistakes.”

There’s a few moments of silence—she can read the denial on his face, even as he holds back whatever smart comments he’s got rolling around in his head—before Daisy stops shuffling around to say, “Ooh. Bit awkward.”

Varric tears his gaze away. “Daisy, I came here to ask you to call Briala.” 

Daisy throws him a thumbs-up and scribbles on a slip of paper on her desk. 

Cassandra shakes her head. “You brought us here so someone _else_ could make a phone call?”

“Yeah. Felassan’s only friend is even more illusive than he is…” Varric leans in conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure she’s a spy.”

“And you can’t call her yourself?”

“It’s too dangerous,” Daisy says, “we don’t _know_ that the Wolf has operators listening, but why risk it?”

Cassandra wants to object, but Varric snaps and points to his friend. “Speaking of wolves, I need you to ask about Felassan’s dog. Breed, size, age, whatever you can get.”

Daisy takes another note, spelling out “D-O-G” under her breath cutely.

Cassandra blinks. “A dog,” she repeats.

“Yeah,” Varric cocks an eyebrow, “you didn’t notice the food bowls? The hair all over the couch? There was no dog in that apartment.”

“You’ll forgive me for being distracted by the dead man and the mouthy dwarf in the room,” Cassandra grits out, but she knows he’s right. Even the smell in the room could’ve told her so. “So a dog may have been stolen. That makes sense, though I can’t imagine why a criminal in hiding would want to keep a dog.”

Varric shrugs. “He _did_ work for the Wolf. Maybe it’s a perk. Or a requirement.”

Daisy giggles, and Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering, “How in Andraste’s name do you expect to find one missing dog in the entirety of Kirkwall?”

“Just let me worry about that one,” says Varric, swooping to Daisy’s side as she struggles with her coat. “You headed out already?”

He helps guide her arms into the sleeves like a gentleman. “I am,” she tells him, “I have to pick up Nyssa from work. And make that phone call, of course.”

When they leave the office, they catch an elderly woman in a nightgown sneaking into the hall, who freezes in place upon noticing them.

“Mrs. Weir,” Daisy gasps quietly, scandalized, “you’re supposed to be in bed.” She locks the office behind them and gives Varric a quick peck on the cheek before she rushes to the woman’s side. “Go on, then,” she shoos them, “and tell Isabela I said hello!”

“Take a break from work later and tell her yourself,” Varric says, while Cassandra’s already halfway out the door, “she misses you, y’know!”

The air is smoky outside. Behind the school, Cassandra can hear a gentle voice singing, as well as the strumming of a guitar. “Come on,” Varric beckons her toward the sound, “I’ll get us a ride to the club.”

“Are all your investigations so frivolous?” Cassandra hisses, keeping her voice low as they enter the camp. “Maybe we should’ve stayed to have tea.”

“Picky,” Varric tuts. “This city was built on crime, y’know, and businessmen like me have learned to turn it to our advantage. I’ve found the most painless way of collecting info—most people would be pretty satisfied with that.” 

“Is Kieran’s _mother_ satisfied with that?” she says bitterly.

Varric stops walking. “Ouch.”

He’s led her to the source of the music: an old elven man with long braided hair hums slow and sweet as they approach. A circle of people sit in the dirt around him, huddled together against the autumn breeze. There’s a blatant disconnect in their ages—very old or very young, with few in between. The draft has taken a terrible toll, especially in a place like this. Would the mob truly come after these poor people?

“Stretch, get over here,” Varric says, and a lanky elf shoots up at once, vallaslin stretching with his smile. “Take us to the club, won’t you?”

“Right away, ser!” he says with a salute, and dashes off, keys jangling as he runs toward the street.

The old man goes back to singing his song— _when the cares of the day are done, we sometimes sit in the twilight fall, and talk of a far off land_ —and Cassandra is lost in it for a moment. She’s getting a clearer picture of Varric through these people: his strength as an investigator comes from his connections. If a case took him outside of the Free Marches, she bets he’d be no better at solving it than your average beat cop. After all, his failure to find Hawke is his most publicized case, and no doubt his most lucrative, too.

_...and I sometimes feel in the twilight there, the touch of a vanished hand._

She can’t help but wonder if this is part of the trick. Perhaps she was brought here in an attempt to garner sympathy, to convince her that he’s worth trusting—but her thoughts are interrupted by a car honking from the street, followed by Varric’s, “come on, Seeker.”

Cassandra lingers for a few seconds longer. The old elf smiles at her, and starts another song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song the elf is singing is _The Grave on the Green Hillside_ by the Carter Family. I hope you're enjoying the fic so far, and that you're excited to see a certain someone at her club in the next chapter...!


	3. Chapter 3

“Stretch” drives them in his yellow cab towards the docks, blabbing on and on about the other children in the homeless camp, as well as updating Varric on his tally of how many passengers call him “rabbit” versus “knife-ear.” Cassandra leans back and stares out the window, trying to tune them out. Maybe Varric’s plan was to annoy her so badly she gives up and hands over her case files—when the kid has to be reminded to keep his eyes on the road, she honestly considers it. 

They arrive at the waterfront so quickly and Varric tips so handsomely that Cassandra realizes he got them a ride just to patronize the elf. A generous act…but somehow it still rubs her the wrong way.

“Couldn’t have asked for a better lead,” Varric says, shutting the car door after her. He breathes in deeply and sighs, satisfied, as if he can smell something other than salt and dead fish in the air. Even worse, maybe he actually enjoys it.

Before them, spotlights glare against a painted brick warehouse, illuminating its name in bold lettering: The Siren’s Call. The windows too have been painted over, with mermaids shyly hiding themselves in a vibrant coral reef; even the door itself is a stained glass work of art, its metal-worked handles shaped to look like two halves of a ship’s steering wheel.

As they step inside, her eye is immediately drawn to a shock of red at the center of the hall: a woman in a sequined dress sweeps across the stage, crooning a sensual song and gazing over her enraptured audience. The jazz band behind her, the packed tables around the catwalk... the entire crowd seems to be unconsciously leaning in.

_I’m feelin’ mighty lonesome, haven’t slept a wink—I walk the floor and watch the door, and in between I drink, black coffee…_

The lounge itself is richly decorated; gilded mermaids lay along the arch of the stage, a cascade of gold curtains waterfalling below them. Clamshell sconces line the walls, which are a dark, brooding navy, laced with sharp lines of gold. The ceiling is slightly…wavy. Ah, like the ocean. It’s hardly subtle, and by Orlesian standards it would be horrendously tacky, but Cassandra feels herself being drawn into the thrill of the place by those bewitchingly smooth vocals.

_I’m talkin’ to the shadows, one o’clock til’ four—Maker, how slow the moments go when all I do is pour, black coffee…_

Someone whistles, and the woman smiles and parts a slit in the side of her dress, revealing dark stockings and a hint of the garters holding them up. _Oh_.

Cassandra whips her head around to demand answers out of Varric, but he’s already chatting up a hostess, and by the time he’s commandeered them a table she decides it might be best not to voice her discomfort.

“You’re a regular here, I take it?” she asks instead, once they’re seated.

He slings one arm over the back of his chair, which stretches his shirt out and reveals more of his ridiculous chest hair. “At the best club in town? Of course.”

As if on cue, two servers rush by to offer giggles and girlish hello’s to him. He sneaks a menu out of one of their aprons and gives them a wink before they scurry off.

“And I see you’re quite the ladies’ man,” Cassandra says.

“Naturally.”

She narrows her eyes at the necklace peeking out from his collar. “Then what of the wedding band you wear around your neck?” she asks, and Varric visibly deflates. “Are you married?”

“Always trying to dampen the mood, aren’t you?” he sighs, tossing the menu down on the table. “I used to be.”

“I see.” She watches him tug at the chain, setting the ring back at the center of his chest. “For how long?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it?” he says, incensed, as if he hadn’t been prying into her own personal affairs an hour ago.

The singer finishes to uproarious applause. Cassandra spares a look over her shoulder, catching one last glimpse of the woman’s exposed thigh before she sashays back behind the curtains.

“Let’s finish here quickly,” she mutters, turning back around to find Varric watching her, eyebrow raised.

“What, not your scene, Seeker?”

Absolutely not, Cassandra thinks, and is about to say as much when she spots a dark-haired woman with a fur stole staring intently at her from across the room; her jewelry glints in the dim light, and as they lock eyes the woman stands, shrugging off her stole to reveal how deep the neckline of her gown goes—

Cassandra clears her throat. “I am not particularly fond of it, no.”

“Really?” Varric surveys the crowd, but if he notices the woman approaching them he doesn’t show it. “I thought, with the short hair… You know what? Nevermind what I thought. You want a drink while we wait?”

The woman arrives at their table and claps Varric on the shoulder, making him jump. “I can’t believe it,” she coos and reaches down to scratch under his chin like he’s a puppy. “Our little Varric’s all grown up, and bringing his date to _my_ club.”

Varric laughs and swats her hands away. “She’s not my date.”

“No? Then you brought her for _me_? Oh, Varric, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m here for information regarding a patron of yours,” Cassandra says plainly, ignoring whatever bit they’re doing. “I need to speak with whoever was serving his table.” 

“I’m Isabela,” she says, and holds out a hand. 

Cassandra reluctantly introduces herself, and takes her hand to shake it. Isabela looks disappointed—what, was she expecting her to kiss it? The woman takes the seat between her and Varric, angling her body toward Cassandra, and crosses one leg over the other. “Can I get you something to drink, kitten?”

Cassandra scowls. “Do not call me that.”

“No, you’re something of a panther, aren’t you?” Isabela says, eyeing her up and down. “If you’re so set on business, we can talk. I’m not about to part with information for free, but…I’m sure you and I can work something out.”

Varric coughs. “ _Isabela_.”

They share a look between them. Cassandra can’t decipher its meaning, but from it she gathers that the two have known each other for a very, very long time. It suddenly clicks that this is one of the women from Varric’s book—this is one of Hawke’s friends. He’d used fake names, of course, but the daring and seductive Gabrielle is a dead ringer for this woman.

“Alright, alright,” Isabela sighs dramatically, “you drive such a hard bargain.” She snaps at a Qunari that’s been patrolling the room—undoubtedly a security guard. He hurries over, and when he leans down for Isabela to whisper in his ear, Cassandra notices Varric eyeing him warily. 

“You’re hiring Qunari now?” he asks, once the guard is out of earshot.

“And you’re here on a day that isn’t ladies night, so color us both surprised.”

“Very funny. Have you hired Antonio back yet?”

Isabela rolls her eyes, and throws Cassandra a wry smile that says, _we’ve been through this too many times_. “No, Varric.”

“He’s the best tenor The Siren’s Call has ever seen,” he insists, very seriously. “Not one of your singers has a falsetto like his—if he’s not here, there’s no point.”

The Qunari returns to them with a ledger shortly after, and together they narrow down the list of servers until they arrive at one: Idunna.

“Idunna? _The Exotic Wonder_ , Idunna?” Varric says.

“That’s the one. She performs on slower nights, but when I have my A-listers here I just let her wait tables,” she taps the ledger. “It says this Felassan guy was at her last table for the night. She checked out early.”

“Did she go with them?” Varric wonders aloud. Cassandra jolts—Isabela has put a hand on her knee.

“She should be in her dressing room,” the woman’s saying, playing off the knee-touch like it was just to get her attention, “if you’d like to talk with her.”

She takes them backstage, and points out the various private rooms the Siren’s Call has; ones for gambling over card games, locker rooms for the band and other employees, as well as dressing rooms for the performers.

Isabela points to the nameplates beside the doors. “Back here, our special patrons can meet the stars for some… _alone time_. Like Varric and his dear Antonio.”

“Rivaini,” Varric says, scandalized. “You know my relationship with him is strictly platonic.”

“I know, I know.” She leans back to whisper in Cassandra’s ear, “I have five royals on them shagging.”

Cassandra can’t help but huff out a laugh.

Further down the corridor there’s some smaller rooms, labelled with paper on clipboards instead of the more permanent nameplates. Idunna’s name is at the top of a long list, on the door right by the exit. A couple of women pass by, hauling instrument cases and chattering about the night’s performances; they bid their boss good night before they head out into the alley, and the smell of fish wafts in from outside for a moment. How can anyone get used to that?

Isabela knocks at Idunna’s door before popping it open a crack. “Are you decent, sweetheart?”

“Yes, ma’am, come in.”

Idunna is seated at a vanity with lights dotting its rim, leaning in close to apply blush to her pale face. She eyes Cassandra and Varric in the reflection of the mirror before slapping on a fake smile to get the apples of her cheeks properly.

“These two detectives are very big fans of yours,” Isabela says, “give them the royal treatment, won’t you? I’ll be back in a little bit.”

She and Varric murmur to each other before she leaves, but Cassandra keeps her gaze locked on the glint of light in the performer’s eyes.

“My name is Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says, stepping forward. “Yesterday you served the table of a man believed to be in the mob.”

Idunna unscrews a tube of lipstick and slowly begins to apply it. “I serve a lot of people,” she drawls.

“You might want to drop the attitude. The man is dead.”

“What, you think I’m responsible?” She presses her lips together, now a deep, brooding purple.

“If you’re not, you have nothing to hide,” Cassandra says. Suddenly, Varric is by her side—Isabela is gone, the door slightly ajar behind them.

“Let’s start with the basics,” he says, “Dalish elf, violet eyes, goes by Felassan.”

“Hmm…” Idunna digs through her makeup bag. “Not ringing any bells.”

“He was at your last table for the night.” Cassandra snatches away the tube of mascara she’s fiddling with. All day she’s been dealing with the most aggravating people, and her patience is about run through. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you. He was with a group of others. Did you go with them somewhere?”

Idunna sulks unconvincingly. “No. I was feeling tired. I went home early.”

“Hey, Seeker, bring it down a notch,” Varric says, but she ignores him.

“Tell me about the people he was with.”

“I don’t remember.” Idunna looks back at her bag and pulls out an eyeshadow palette. Cassandra takes it from her, snaps it in half by the hinges, and tosses it to the floor.

“Hey!” Varric squawks and grabs her arm.

“She obviously knows something,” Cassandra growls, “with the way she’s acting, I wouldn’t be surprised if she killed him herself.” She tries to pull her arm away, but Varric holds tightly. “Let go.”

“So you can slap her around too? I don’t think so,” he says. Cassandra catches Idunna’s reflection in the mirror: she’s smirking.

So be it. If Varric wants to interfere with her investigation any longer, he’ll have to try much harder than this. She grabs him by the back of the collar and shoves him bodily out the door—he stumbles and almost falls, crying obscenities as he goes. She slams the door behind him and locks it, then swivels back around to leer at Idunna, who’s looking suddenly aware of her mortality.

“Give me their names,” she demands. Varric starts knocking and shouting incessantly outside. The woman glances past her at the noise, and Cassandra grabs her chin, leaning in close and hissing, “ _Look at me_.”

Idunna’s lip quivers, her eyes wide and pathetic. “You…you’re making a mistake, I don’t know anything.”

“Their names,” she repeats, “a location.” Idunna stutters and tries to pull away, but Cassandra grips her face harder, thumbnail pressing into the soft skin at her jaw. The doorknob rattles—Varric is trying to pick the lock. “You have until he breaks in to tell me what you know. You won’t like what happens then.”

The woman’s eyes dart to the door and back once more. She breathes in sharply, and whimpers, “537 Arl Street.”

“Go on.”

“Top floor, first apartment on the left. A few of them invited me there to…” Idunna hesitates, “to spend the night. Two humans, and another knife-ear—b-but the Dalish didn’t come with us, he wasn’t there, I swear it!”

“And did they pay you for your services?”

“Yes, it was business, nothing more.” Cassandra searches the woman’s eyes, and she continues, teeth gritted. “Please, I know dangerous men when I see them. I didn’t ask questions, and they didn’t make small talk. I entertained them and then I went home. That’s _all_.”

She lets go of the woman’s chin and wipes her hand on her trench coat. She’s truly petrified, but she’s telling the truth. There might be something else there, something else she’s hoping Cassandra won’t ask, but--

The door swings open and Varric storms inside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands, yanking Cassandra out of the way and placing himself between her and Idunna. 

“Following a lead,” she says, but keeps her eyes focused on Idunna—the relief flooding the woman’s face is troubling. Sure, it could be because Varric came to her rescue…

“There is seriously something wrong with you,” the dwarf is insisting. He helps Idunna up and into her dressing chair. “Are you okay?” he asks her, disgustingly gentle. “Did she hurt you?”

Idunna’s instantly back to her damsel-in-distress schtick. “I-I’m alright, ser,” she says, tugging the long sleeves of her dress down past her slender wrists. “I’ve told you everything I know, Detective… are you going to report me to the police?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “No. I don’t care how you make a living.” She glares down at the woman’s snivelling, as well as Varric’s clenched fists, and says, “Unless you’ve lied to me. Should this address turn up nothing…maybe I shall reconsider.”

“Okay,” Varric says, “you’ve tortured the poor girl enough, let’s go.”

He gestures for her to go first, and watches her leave as though she might pounce on Idunna if he’s not looking. Out in the hall, Isabela is waiting awkwardly, lips pursed, key in hand.

“I came when I heard all the shouting,” she explains, tucking the key away, “did I miss the party?”

Cassandra sighs and crosses her arms. “I interrogated your employee, as I said I would. Tethras has just taken issue with my methods.”

“Ooh, did you get all templar on her? Rough her up a bit, maybe?” Isabela says, sidling up beside her with a wicked smile. “Can it be my turn?”

Varric shoulders past the both of them as he leaves the dressing room. “I need to borrow the car, Rivaini,” he mutters, and doesn’t wait for a response before he heads out the back door and into the alleyway.

Isabela eyes Cassandra suspiciously. “Did you put that stick up his ass?”

“You mean it wasn’t already there?”

Thankfully, Varric can’t leave without her; he hadn’t overheard the address, and Cassandra finds him waiting in a dark blue Continental at the end of the alley. She knocks on the passenger-side window, and he unlocks it with no resistance—she’d been expecting to have to wait with how petty he’s being.

He stays quiet as she slides into the car next to him and relays the address. The keys go untouched in the ignition. Muffled music swells from the club, then hushes into silence.

“Your friend,” Cassandra says, “Isabela. She told me you aren’t normally so…” she gestures vaguely to Varric and the profound gloom hanging over him.

“You know what, I’m not. Usually, I’m pretty chipper.” He glares out the window and says sarcastically, “Maybe it’s the weather.”

“Need I remind you that _you_ invited _me_ to come with you? That girl was not going to give up what she knew without provocation.”

Varric crosses his arms and mutters, “Maker’s breath.”

“No, that can’t be it,” she says. “You can’t be this on edge simply because I used to work for the Chantry. How can you be so hung up on this?”

Varric spins around, furious. “Gee, I dunno, I thought ‘ _I almost died_ ’ was pretty crystal fucking clear!”

“So I’m to take responsibility for that? I have to let your personal grudge against someone else get in the way of my investigation?”

Another car passes the alley. The glare of its headlights makes her wince. Varric huffs and turns away, taking slow breaths through his nose, clearly wrestling with his own frustration.

“You have no idea what the Chantry’s taken from me,” he says, low and bitter. 

It strikes her suddenly how much his anger resonates with her own—how much he reminds her of herself when she’d lost Anthony. No words could satisfy her, no training could distract her, no faith could make up for the hole he left in her heart. Just as she saw Anthony’s killers in every criminal she apprehended, maybe Varric too sees those that chased away Hawke in her. Maybe he knows how misplaced his anger is, and maybe he doesn’t care.

“Then I’m sorry,” Cassandra offers. “For whatever it is you’ve lost.” 

She waits in the silence that follows. 

Eventually she asks, “Do you believe in the Maker?”

Varric sighs. His hand moves to rest on the grip of his gun—not a threat to her, but a comfort to himself. Eventually, he says, “I do.”

“But the Chantry is testing your faith.”

“You say that like you know how it feels.” It’s not an accusation, just the hint of a question.

“I do,” she tells him honestly. “I joined the Chantry when I was very young. As I grew up, the veneer began to fade—I realized that the Chantry itself is a work of man, not of the Maker. It has weaknesses and strengths...it can be corrupted, as any man can be. Despite everything, I stayed, because I had faith that I could change things, cut out the corruption, fix the problems of the world.”

“The Divine…” Varric starts, but then his mouth clicks shut. His sympathy is a far cry from all the prying he’d done earlier…maybe they really can come to an understanding.

“When Divine Justinia was murdered,” Cassandra continues for him, managing to keep her voice steady, “the clerics turned to politicking and scheming in a desperate bid for power. She wanted to end the war, and so I put my doubts aside and stood with her... And now she’s gone.”

“Which is why you quit,” Varric finishes, and she’s surprised to see guilt on his face when she glances over at him.

“I’m sorry for what the Chantry did to you,” she says. “I’m not here to hurt you or your friends, and I will do everything in my power to make sure Cole returns home safely.”

Varric’s mouth opens, then shuts again. His thumb smooths over his holster. Cassandra feels strangely relieved that she shared all this with him…but also a twinge of fear as she waits for his response. Did she make her point clearly enough? Is he being thoughtful, or stubborn? Varric meets her eyes suddenly, and she blinks, startled.

“Do you want a burger,” he says.

“I… what?”

“I know a good diner a block over from that address Idunna gave you. No point having a stakeout on an empty stomach.”

Cassandra tries to process this, she really does, while Varric turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the alley. Is this what understanding looks like? Do normal people do this, or just him?

———

It’s an olive branch. 

Yes, it’s just a burger in a paper wrapper, but it’s Varric’s form of a peace offering.

They’ve parked the car across the street from the apartment building—which Cassandra has already tried buzzing into, but no one answers for a stranger at midnight. Unless she wants to face the police captain again, all there’s left to do is wait. 

This is the second meal she’s had since arriving in Kirkwall, the first being the eggs and toast she’d bought at the train station. It’s been a busy day, and once again, her focus on her work distracted her from everything else. It could be her hunger that’s making this the best burger she’s ever had, but Varric notices the zeal with which she’s eating and chuckles.

“You probably wondered why people stay in Kirkwall, what with all the crime,” he says, and Cassandra swallows.

“You’re not saying they stay for the food.”

“No, no, just these burgers specifically.” He goes back to watching the windows on the top floor, chewing thoughtfully. The conversation just ended. A casual remark, free from barbs, not intended to spark another argument. Olive branch.

Perhaps now she can let her guard down and just think. It’s nice at first, to have a flat, unemotional silence between them. She runs through scenarios based on what she knows of Cole and the mob, considers the mess of people she’s been introduced to, thinks about Anthony... 

Her eyes settle on the dashboard, where Varric has placed his gun and its holster. She wipes her hands on a napkin and points, asking casually, “May I look at it?”

Varric stops chewing. His face contorts like she’d asked to hold his newborn.

“Yes, I constructed this elaborate plan to steal a _gun_ from you.”

He snorts out a laugh, says, “Ah, what the hell,” and nods—but his casual demeanor doesn’t quite obscure the tension in his eyes.

It’s heavy, the wooden grip slightly grooved from use, a polished silver barrel with a golden inscription on each side. She traces her fingers over the flowery lettering surrounded by vines, and reads, “Bianca?”

“She’s one of a kind,” he says proudly.

“I see. And who is she named for?”

Varric sighs. “You must’ve been the top interrogator at Seeker school. Do you ever stop digging?” He pulls a handful of fries from the bag between them. “Don’t you want to ask me about Cole or something?”

She’s perfectly happy to let him dodge her small talk if it means he’ll tell her something actually useful. “Since you brought it up,” she says, setting the gun back on the dash. “How did the two of you meet?”

He smiles. “It’s a good story,” he says, and starts at the very beginning. 

He paints Cole as a martyr: from an abusive family, to a prison of an orphanage, the boy spent his youth suffering at the hands of others, and yet somehow held onto his compassion. He already knew how to take care of himself by the time Rhys and Evangeline adopted him. But their support allowed him to travel far and wide, spreading his kindness to those that needed it, some innate sense guiding him exactly where he needed to be.

“Hang on,” Cassandra interrupts, “you’re making him sound like a Satinalia story.”

Varric stifles a chuckle, tries to play it off as a cough. “I promise he doesn’t go down any chimneys, or teach anyone the meaning of the holidays.”

“Well… go on, then,” she says, taking a handful of fries. 

He looks awfully pleased with her encouragement, and she manages to maintain a look of indifference until the story reaches Kirkwall. Varric is there, of course. He vaguely describes himself as “at his lowest,” but before she can press him for details, he transfixes her with his rich descriptions of Cole. He appeared at the Hanged Man like a ghost, like a sign from the Maker, holding an old copy of _The Viper’s Nest_ in his bony hands. From there, they helped each other: he taught Cole how to pour his thoughts into poetry and journaling, and Cole gave him something to think about other than the terrible shit that’d been going on at the time.

This had to be when Hawke disappeared—there’s no doubt in her mind about it. It makes sense that the boy would show up after reading about the tragedies in the paper. When Varric finishes and takes the last bite of his burger, she blinks away her admiration. This is why the officers at the precinct were so taken by him. Has she just fallen for a trick?

She checks the apartment— the lights are still on— and then glances back at Varric warily. “...Tell me about Kieran, next?”

He balls up the wrapper and tosses it back into the bag. “That’s not how this game works, Seeker. You got your turn, now it’s mine.”

“I’m not playing any ‘games’ with you.”

“It’s an unspoken rule. So, let’s see…” he taps his chin, humming thoughtfully. Cassandra rolls her eyes and looks out the passenger window—

The front door of the apartment complex is opening. An elf steps out, with a big brown dog trailing behind him. He yawns and pulls out a pack of cigarettes while the dog does its business.

“Felassan’s dog,” she murmurs, “what color was its hair?”

“Brown, maybe black? Why do you...” Varric trails off as he notices what she’s looking at. Cassandra reaches for the door—he grabs her arm. “What are you gonna do, shake him down for his keys?”

“If I must.”

“Hang on,” he hisses, but she shrugs him off and gets out of the car. The cool night air chases away her complacency.

Her shoes click against the pavement as she crosses the street, and the elf turns sharply at the sound. As the plume of smoke around him dissipates, she sees the shine of his eyes in the darkness, the swirling tattoos perched above his brow like halla horns—a deer in the headlights. He has no coat, and his slim trousers couldn’t possibly be hiding a gun. He takes a careful step back as she comes closer. 

“Evening,” he calls. 

She walks faster. The elf tosses his cigarette and bolts.

He tries to drag the dog along behind him but it resists, dropping its weight to the ground and growling, and eventually he abandons its leash to sprint towards the door. Cassandra arrives as he’s struggling with the keys. She slams a hand against the brick above his head, boxing him into the doorway.

He trembles below her, hand hovering at the lock. 

“What are you waiting for?” Cassandra murmurs, and his ear twitches against the side of her face. “Let’s go.”

The elf doesn’t need any more persuasion than that. She supposes he might be a new recruit, to have left all weapons behind and not brought anyone else to protect him. He’s most certainly not someone important—if the mob is good at keeping secrets, recruits like this are not the reason why. He might even be bait. Three men are supposed to be in the apartment, but she’d do well to prepare for more.

He obediently takes her to the elevator and presses the button for the top floor. The doors begin to slide shut—until a hand shoots between them, and Varric worms in.

Does he have any idea what he’s getting into? He’s going to be a liability. If she has to protect him, or he tries to stop her from interrogating a group of criminals… 

Cassandra mutters, “I thought you didn’t have the stomach for this.”

“There’s plenty you don’t know about me,” he says, and starts scrutinizing the elf, who seems far less intimidated by him.

“I don’t have anything, dwarf,” he sneers. Varric suddenly shoves a hand down the front of the elf’s trousers—“What the hell do you think you’re—” and pulls out a tiny silver pistol.

“Tricky,” Varric chides, “I thought maybe you were just happy to see us.”

As she’d suspected, the elf was the bait as well as the hook: bring her up to the apartment with his doe-eyed cowardice, then turn on her where there’d be back-up and fewer witnesses. She’d simply been beaten to the reveal.

Varric doesn’t look particularly pleased with himself, though. His jaw is set as he releases the magazine, tucking it and the pistol into separate pockets in his coat. He pulls his _Bianca_ from his belt, kicks out the cylinder, and gives it a spin.

“Tell your buddies to stand down,” he warns the elf as the elevator dings, “this doesn’t have to get messy.”

They’re led to the first room on the left. The elf doesn’t knock, or cry out a warning, just turns his key in the lock and steps inside.

Cassandra goes next, surveying the room as quickly as she’s able: an empty foyer, three hallways, a closet. She notices the brute of a man waiting behind the front door in the same moment he starts his attack; Varric makes it a few steps into the apartment before he’s tackled to the floor, sending his gun scattering across the hardwood. 

She reacts immediately, drawing her arm forward and slamming her elbow back into the elf beside her; it hits him square in the face. The sickening crack of his nose and subsequent yowling gives her enough time to grab the man attacking Varric by his long, black ponytail. She wraps his greasy hair up in her fist, pulling his head toward her like a ragdoll. 

The man snarls and arches back. Varric scrambles out from under him. Cassandra holds his head in place with both hands, then brings her knee up and into his gritted teeth.

She’s about to do it again, to see how many teeth she can knock loose at once, when arms wrap around hers and yank her backwards. The elf has regained himself, his blood hot on the back of her neck—she’d only just gotten the stains out of this shirt, and now she’ll have to suss out a dry cleaner in Kirkwall that isn’t a front for some Lowtown gang.

“You’re mething with the wrong beeble,” the elf hisses. Some of his spit hits the back of her ear.

The brutish man is up off the floor now, mouth hanging open in an ugly, painful grimace. Cassandra pushes back and slams the elf into the wall, her shoulders digging into his collarbones. To his credit, he doesn’t let go—the other mobster gets his chance to slug her in the stomach. She grits her teeth through it and whips her head back; if the elf’s nose wasn’t broken before, it is now. She manages to shake him off, and then she sees Varric.

He’s pinned to the floor by the third mobster: the other human, a woman with a buzzcut. She’s trying to wrestle the gun out of his hands. Where the hell did she come from?

Cassandra’s opponent throws a punch that she only just avoids. She hears Varric shout in pain and her gut twists. A jab at the mobster’s kidney, an uppercut to his chin, another dodge as he tries to grab her. She doesn’t have time for this; she kicks her mobster in the groin and shoulders him to the floor, where he curls up and whines, no longer an issue.

Varric shouts again—the woman has both hands around his throat, and he’s holding her wrists with both of his. Where’s the gun?

Cassandra charges over to them. She knocks the mobster off of Varric with a kick to her side. She’s about to deliver another kick straight into her sternum, but the woman catches her foot and pulls. Cassandra hits the ground shoulder first. Her head cracks against the floorboards, and for a moment she just lays there uselessly, but...nothing follows. They don’t think she’s that easy, do they?

She shakes her head and pushes up onto her good arm. When the ringing in her ears doesn’t subside, she realizes what it truly is.

The phone.

The woman at Cassandra’s feet lets go of her, wide-eyed, panting. They both turn to look at the far side of the foyer, where the phone is sitting on a fold-out chair, its rings echoing in the empty room.

Varric shifts, cradling his jaw. “Is anyone going to get that?” he asks, cheeky as ever.

The elf steps out from the hallway he’d been hiding in, shirt sleeve pressed to his nose. He shakily makes his way to the phone. Everyone watches him lift the receiver. He doesn’t say anything, just listens, pain making his face unreadable.

Cassandra glances at Varric. The grip of his gun peeks out from his jacket; surely the mobsters could’ve taken it from him. Maybe what they _really_ wanted was to avoid the heat that gunshots in the middle of the night would bring.

“Understood,” the elf says, his voice muffled and wet. He hangs up and turns to look at them all. “The boss wants to see them.”


End file.
